


Please Have Mercy On Me, Take It Easy On My Heart

by larryisrealbro



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant (kind of), Famous Harry, Famous Louis, Harry used to have feelings for Zayn, M/M, One Direction are no longer together, Set in a weird parralel universe future, i don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:00:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larryisrealbro/pseuds/larryisrealbro
Summary: This is the first chapter of a Larry miniseries set in a parallel universe where people have a hard time dealing with their emotions and make a lot of bad choices, and then things happen that aren’t even remotely true in real life.Some bits were inspired by this quote from the movie Crash:“It’s the sense of touch. In any real city you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.”The title comes from the Song Mercy by Shawn Mendes.





	1. Part One: Sounds under water

The music was unbearable.

It wasn’t even music anymore. At this point all he could hear was a high vibrating noise that seemed to have its source within his own skull. It was resonating in his temples, then down his spine and through his ribs, in sync with all the lights. He made a few steps towards the exit, where two half-naked waitresses were chatting to a bodyguard the size of a petite mountain. Then he stopped.

A new wave of sound came crashing against his body, nearly sweeping him off his feet. He felt like a pole stuck in the bottom of the sea. Or a tiny, tiny fish.

His fingers found a wall and pressed against its slippery surface. Was the wall so wet or his hands so sweaty? All of a sudden, the line between his body and the things around it became blurry. He was somewhere else. He wasn’t there.

He could no longer hear the sound.

____ ____ ____

‘And there he found me, clinging to that wall. That must’ve been the worst night of my life, except I can’t remember most of it. One thing I do remember quite clearly though is puking my guts out. It’s like, my brain found the perfect moment to switch back on. Way to go, brain!’

‘Wait, so that was the last time you saw him? In that club?’

‘No, there were a few more times. But that was the last night that mattered, you know? In the worst possible way, but it did. And I think that was the last time I touched him, which is another reason… another thing that makes it so unreal. I just blacked out, man. I wasn’t even there.’

Harry listens to his own voice telling the story with an ease and indifference that’s normally reserved for recounting a piece of fiction. When he runs out of words he simply stops talking and sits back in his armchair, resting a chipped mug in his lap.

The place is empty except for the two of them, just as it was when they came in a few hours earlier. The rugged sofa on which his friend chose to sit is stained by the countless coffees and cakes that were consumed over its otherwise grey cushions, but there are no other signs of the café having any customers.

It’s not really quiet in here, though. The Polish girl who brought them tea and brownies is now at the back, washing the dishes with a loud clatter. And there’s this song playing from a speaker above their heads, moaned in a language that seems to consist entirely of consonants.

Nobody speaks for a minute or two, but Harry feels at ease. Things continue to be very simple; the tea is good and there’s almost nothing gross about the coffee-stained furniture.

‘It’s nice in here, isn’t it? Kinda gross, but nice.’

Harry smiles. ‘Yeah, I was thinking the same thing just now.’

‘It’s this entire town in a nutshell. Like, you don’t necessarily want it close to your skin… but it looks super cosy. And nice.’

‘Yeah,  _ nice _ seems to be the key word here.’

‘It’s a word, Harry, and I’m going to use it whenever I want. But, listen, I was going to ask you something… Do you think you’ll ever go back to London?’

‘Oh god, no. And even if I did, it wouldn’t really be coming  _ back _ , like, that was never my home. I hated London.’

‘Because of all the shit that happened?’

‘ _ No _ ,’ Harry snorts and begins his usual rant on the drawbacks of living in London, but then he falters mid-sentence. Something tells him it would sound very half-hearted. He bites his lip, glancing up at the window-framed patch of the sunless city he’s been living in for months now.

‘Well? Where’s the rest of the speech?’

‘Actually,’ Harry smiles, turning to his friend again, ‘I just almost,  _ almost  _ thought I missed London.’

‘Wow. Talk about mood swings,’ he laughs.

‘I know, it’s just… the sounds. And colours! When I’m here, sometimes I feel like the world could go black and white and I wouldn’t even notice, you know?’

‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Harry, but you’re living in the rainiest place on the entire fucking planet.’

‘That’s not true, in fact, such place is in India,’ Harry says, readjusting his black rimmed glasses with a smug smile.

‘Okay, smartass.’

They keep on chatting, and the memory that’s just begun to shape in Harry’s head goes back to its hidden place.

_____ _____ _____

Driving through the streets of London at night had a surreal feeling to it.

Harry watched the city like a film projected onto his windscreen. People behind the metal and glass of his car made him think of rare fish in the coral reef, as they emerged into the bright puddles of artificial light splashed over the sidewalks, pink and orange and blue.

Soon enough his thoughts turned to the man he was going to see that night, at a bar near a park that Harry had never heard of before. The idea itself made him a little anxious, though it wasn’t the only reason why his fingers were wrapped slightly too tight around the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, glancing at the GPS for the millionth time.

The bar reminded his of the places he used to go to in his college years.

Harry walked into a poorly air-conditioned room and looked around. The background music pulsated like languid heartbeat of a giant sea creature, blending with people’s voices. Few of them were actually talking. It was early in the night and most visitors were still on their own. The patrons at the bar seemed unapproachable, sitting there with their smooth skin and unresponsive eyes, but Harry knew all they wanted was being approached.

And he was there too, just a few feet away from where Harry was standing. The light from the nearest lamp fell on his dark brown quiff, ominously, changing its colour to a deep shade of red. 

So, yeah, he was there. Right in front of Harry, with the red light all over him.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Harry sat down on the edge of the chair, crossing his arms awkwardly, ‘Um. What is it you’re drinking?’

‘A vodka soda. You want one?’

‘No, I’m driving so I guess I’ll take like… hey, have you been here a long time? Sorry you had to wait.’

‘Oh come on, it’s not even 9 yet. Or is it? I don’t know. Actually, I’ve no idea how I got here so early without getting lost or distracted. Though it was close; at one point I saw a baby human walking a baby French bulldog and  _ god  _ that was-’

‘Hi. What can I get you?’ asked the waiter, who had been standing by their table for several seconds. He obviously had no patience to wait for a break in the monologue. Harry blinked at him, confused, his brain filled with mental images of puppies.

‘I’ll have a… Bloody Mary? Oh no, wait. Orange juice. Thanks.’

‘Harry Styles, model citizen and advocate of sobriety,’ murmured the boy.

Harry smiled at him weakly. ‘You know, maybe one day I’ll write a song about drunk driving. But it’ll be hard to find a sponsor.’

‘You think  _ YSL  _ would bail out on you?’

‘Yeah, pretty sure they would.’

‘Fucking pussies.’

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that.

The waiter put a glass on the table, spilling some juice, and walked away briskly. They sat in silence for a moment, each looking intently at his own drink.

‘So. I didn’t finish telling you about the little kid with a French bulldog. Listen to this, I stopped to ask what its name was, the puppy’s, though I know it’s weird and always makes me feel like a perv, kind of, which is totally fucked up when you think of it, like the society  _ makes _ you feel like a paedophile when all you wanna do is talk to this little human. It should feel like a normal thing, right? Anyway, I said to him “What a cute puppy, what’s his name?” and the kid looks at me like I’m a total moron and goes “It’s a she.” And I’m like  _ okay _ , young cynologist. But I wanted to be nice, so I said “You know, I’ve got a puppy too. His name is Garfield.” And you know what that fucking kid said? He said, “That’s a stupid name. It’s a puppy, not a cat.” Can you imagine, that little…’

Harry didn’t even notice when his lips stretched in a wide, goofy grin. And so he sat there, his eyes fixed on the boy, listening to his endless rambling as if it was an incredible piece of music.

Then he blinked rapidly. He looked away and a deep line reappeared between his eyebrows.

Slowly, the talking subsided. They could only pretend for so long to have come there to discuss children and puppies. Harry took a deep breath, wondering what on earth he should say, but the boy spoke first.

‘So, how have you been?’

‘I’m fine, Zayn. And you?’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like some politeness bullshit. Seriously. How d’you feel?’

‘Fine?’ Harry bit his lip, feeling like a stubborn child that refused to participate in a game. He did hate the sincerity game sometimes. But he hated silence even more, so after a moment he murmured, ‘Okay. Well. I feel like shit.’

Zayn nodded as if that was the answer he’d been waiting for.

‘Me too,’ he said quietly. ‘This is fucked up, Harry. We’re friends. Like,  _ really _ good friends. I can’t believe we don’t feel the same way about each other.’

‘Yeah.’ It crossed Harry’s mind that he should give a more elaborate answer, but then he just kept chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at the floor.

‘And, you know, I feel like a jerk. Like a huge, fucking jerk because it’s you of all people, and…’

‘What. No, wait, don’t say that. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything. Or felt anything, for that matter.’

‘Hey,’ Zayn reached out and covered his hand with his own, and then his said more words, but Harry was too focused on the table, where their fingers touched next to the glasses. He could feel Zayn’s warmth spreading through his own bones, and that’s a funny thing, he thought, like if we all have the same body temperature most of the time, why does the other person always feel warmer? What is it about human touch that can make you feel like a block of ice, melting under their skin way too slowly.

Harry wanted to move. He wanted to move so badly his fingers hurt from lying still.

‘Are you listening?’ Zayn asked.

‘Not really.’

‘Okay,’ He removed his hand and sat back, looking defeated, ‘So… I don’t know. You tell me what happens now, because I’m really fucking confused.’

‘Nothing happens. I don’t think… We won’t be seeing each other that much. I have to, you know. Figure it out,’ Harry mumbled, forcing himself to speak. ‘It’ll be easier if we don’t talk.’

‘Shit. That’s the worst part,’ said Zayn, but he was wrong. That wasn’t the worst part.

They left a small pile of bills on the table and walked out of the bar before the waiter came up to collect the money. Harry said a quick goodnight, already turning in the direction of the parking lot. He walked fast. Someone called after him, but he couldn’t hear the words through the sound of his own bloodstream roaring in his ears.

____ ____ ____

It’s getting late and the café is about to close. The waitress takes their empty cups with a smile and then she turns off the music, cutting the singer off mid-sentence. For a few seconds Harry can still hear his high androgynous voice in his head, wishing he understood the lyrics. Maybe he’ll ask the Polish girl some time.

Harry gets up and stretches his legs, stiff from sitting in a deep armchair for hours. He turns to his friend, who seems to have a similar difficulty with moving, and the skin around his eyes wrinkles as he smiles.

‘Come on, Lou. We’ve miles to go before we sleep. And we missed the bus.’

‘Ouch. Wait. I have to remember how my limbs work.’

‘Good luck with that.’

They walk out into cool evening air. There are puddles all over the pavement, where their trainers make splashing sounds, but somehow the sky is clear and a pale half moon hangs above the end of the street. Harry stops and gasps in surprise.

‘Look, Louis! You know I haven’t seen the moon in Dublin even  _ once _ since I moved here? It’s always too cloudy. Wow,’ he sighs, unaware that Louis is looking at his face instead, with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

‘Jesus, Harry. You lost your mind in this place. Crazy Irish poet,’ he chuckles and starts to walk away, pulling at Harry’s sleeve. ‘C’mon. You know I have low tolerance for beauty.’


	2. Part Two: Sore eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe the Internet raised us,  
> or maybe people are jerks.  
> But not you.”
> 
> – Lorde

**_____________**

Harry blinks once, tentatively, but it’s enough for his eyes to register and get hurt by a greyish kind of whiteness that’s seeping in through the windowpane. By now, he has spent enough time in Dublin to know exactly what that means.

It must be somewhere between dawn and late afternoon.

The bedroom is as cold as the light so he pulls up the extra blanket which slipped down from his duvet at night, and curls up into a sniffing, shivering human cocoon.

Outside, the wind continues to howl mournfully and throw stuff about. Harry’s used to this sound.

He buries his face in the pillow to trick his brain into thinking it’s much earlier than the light suggests and there’s lots of time left for writing his daily portion of verses for the new album. It works, kind of. But then, as he’s about to doze off, he suddenly remembers.

This isn’t a regular morning. There’s someone else in the house.

Harry sits up, ignoring the cold humid air that attacks his skin, and he slips from under the layers of sheets and blankets. His teeth chatter slightly, but joy’s already starting to spread through his body like a very convincing imitation of warmth.

He picks up a large woollen cardigan from the floor, wrapping it around himself before he walks down the stairs. There’s a faint scent of tea in the air, so he heads straight to the kitchen.

‘Oh,  _ hello _ ,’ Louis squints at him over a steaming cup, ‘Welcome to my Irish kitchen, where nothing works and it’s cold as fuck.’

‘Shut up!’ Harry tries to look outraged, but he can’t help grinning even for a moment, especially when Louis breaks into a fit of giggles. ‘The kettle works just fine.’

‘It does. I’m very grateful for this little miracle,’ Louis takes a sip from his cup and smiles to himself. He then looks up at Harry, who’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, apparently lost in thought, and playing with the sleeves of a giant sweater Louis remembers buying in some vintage shop years ago. ‘Hey, remember that time Niall and I visited you in LA?’

‘Oh god. Like I could ever forget,’ Harry says, snapping back to reality. A blush seems to be creeping up to his cheeks, mysteriously, but he quickly turns away and opens the fridge.

‘Yeah, that was memorable. Especially the bit where we woke up with the worst hangover in human history, and you offered us  _ lemonade _ . _ ’ _

‘Louis, you know I don’t even drink tea,’ Harry mutters from behind the fridge door. ‘You’re lucky the owners left the teabags in here, it’s not like I’d  _ buy _ them especially for you.’

_____ _____ _____

A few months after Harry left London and rented an apartment in Los Angeles, he received a series of angry texts from Niall Horan, who emphatically refused to be ignored any longer. The messages contained phrases such as “don’t you dare _,_ ” “little turd,” and “kind of pathetic if I’m honest.” The last one read: “Coming over next Friday with Tommo.”

Harry was glad. After all, he wasn’t actively avoiding people; he just didn’t take the initiative any more.

He hadn’t seen any of the boys since some awards show at the end of the previous year. Niall and Louis always talked about moving to New York and complained that their local music scene was practically non-existent, but nothing ever came of it. Harry suspected that once they bonded with London they wouldn’t want to leave, no matter what career opportunities might await them in the States.

But he never said anything about it. After all, he felt like the last person to recommend this sort of move.

On Friday morning, as planned, he picked them up from LAX.

For the rest of the day he was catering to the whims of his incredibly jetlagged friends, and on Saturday afternoon the three of them went on an early bar crawl.

They were guided by a list of must-see places which Niall claimed to have received from his most trusted informers in London, who “totally knew the city inside out.” It soon transpired that whoever those people were they either had a very bizarre taste in hangout spots or simply wished Niall a violent death.

The way to the first bar led through a dark hallway, which greeted them with a faint scent of urine and pigeons. On its other end was a courtyard with a row of waste containers hiding an unmarked entrance to…

‘What the fuck, Ni. What is this place,’ Louis whispered at the door, his eyes wide with terror. He scanned the room, and then cast a dubious look up at Harry, as if estimating his chances of survival.

Niall’s face dropped only a little bit. ‘Well, it- it’s got some local colour. That’s what we’re after, right? Come on, don’t be a pussy.’

By the time they’d marked off the fifth item on the list none of them cared any more.

_____ _____ _____

Later that night, Harry lay down on the narrow bed in the guest room, which for some reason served as his bedroom now that he had actual guests, and tried falling asleep.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. The room was flooded with moonlight and the pale glow of street lamps. Harry tried closing his eyes, but then the darkness underneath his eyelids started spinning at a sickening pace. There was a dull buzz in his ears, as if all blood in his veins had been replaced by electric current.

He was about to give up and leave the bed, when the door opened slightly with the tiniest noise.

It was Louis.

‘Hey,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, gesturing at him to come in.

‘Hey. What’s up? D’you need anything?’

Louis shook his head and sat down awkwardly on the edge of the bed, folding his hands around himself. He looked thinner in the moonlight.

Harry’s throat clenched a little, and that was a new kind of pain, one that made him forget about all the discomfort for a moment.

He sighed. ‘Bad night, huh? I don’t think I’ll get any sleep. My head’s killing me.’

‘You’re hungover already?’ Louis asked through a yawn.

‘Oh. Big time,’ he snorted, and they both sat in silence for a moment.

‘God, tonight was the worse,’ Louis said finally. There was no amusement in his voice, but he still huffed out a quiet laugh, as if to make it seem like a random statement he didn’t really mean. Harry smiled. He knew that trick all too well.

‘Yep. It was a terrible, terrible night. I’m glad we weren’t papped.’

‘We can still make up for it. The Internet misses your drunk face.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Harry muttered. He grabbed the edge of his duvet and started wrapping it around Louis' shoulders, just in case he was shaking from more than laughter.

‘Oh. Thanks,’ Louis said and made himself a little more comfortable without actually relaxing. He was serious again, staring at his own fingers clasped around the sheets. After a moment he said, ‘So, uh. You were quiet tonight?’

‘Quiet? I almost lost my voice from laughing at Niall.’

‘Mmm. Me too. But, you know, I thought we’d get to catch up a little.“

‘Oh god, there isn’t much to talk about,’ Harry laughed nervously, feeling hot blood rush to his face at the familiar phrase. At that point he was pretty sure he’d begun to develop some kind of a sixth sense for his friends’ interventions, and was instinctively tensing up, preparing to evade the questions that would follow.

But Louis must have sensed that something was wrong. He poked Harry’s leg through the duvet and said, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out. You can stop with the internal screaming.’

Harry’s mouth flew open in surprise. Then he snorted.

‘Oh. I didn’t realise my internal scream was so loud. I’ll have to work on that.’

‘Yeah, Harry, you’re really bad at this. Look, it’s supposed to be  _ silent _ . Like that,’ Louis leaned closer to Harry, making a screaming face at him.

Harry giggled loudly and then clamped a hand to his mouth, because Niall was sleeping just behind the wall. He froze for a few seconds, but no sound came from the other room.

Louis shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t wake him. You could fire a riffle right now and he’d just turn on the other side.’

‘Then why are you whispering?’

They grinned at each other in the semi-darkness of the room.

The sheets rustled slightly when Louis readjusted the duvet around his arms, sitting a little further away from the edge of the bed. ‘You know what I kept thinking about tonight?’ he asked.

‘That we might die?’

‘Yeah, that too. Um. No, I was wondering… Is this, I mean, is it something you do a lot these days? Is this your life now?’ Louis' voice got more and more quiet with every word, so when he finished speaking the question mark was barely there. It wouldn’t have been hard for either of them to turn it into another joke.

Harry waited for the familiar panic to settle in, but nothing really happened this time.

‘Yeah…,’ he said finally, stretching the sounds to buy some time, ‘Not exactly, I mean, not any more. But it was kind of like that at first. Like, Liam and Cheryl would come over and take me to some bars, try to get me laid so I wouldn’t think about stuff. So, yeah. I did things. Went out. But it wasn’t a good therapy, you know, sometimes I just do better on my own. Except now that you and Niall are here it’s  _ slightly  _ better than being alone,’ he smiled, and Louis smiled back, though briefly.

There was silence again. Louis took a deep breath as if to say something again, but then he stalled. Harry looked at him for a moment before reaching out and squeezing his arm lightly. ‘Hey. What’s wrong? Was that too much information? Cause–’

‘No, Harry, no, I just… maybe I was never that broken hearted in my life, but I still don’t get it why you quit the band and, like, ran away from everything.’

‘Oh, that? Uh, you know, it seemed like a valid option at the time. You didn’t see me back then, during my last months in New York. That was… really bad. I don’t think I’ll ever want to talk about it, actually.’

Louis nodded. ‘Sure. You don’t have to. I asked because I- I didn’t understand how a person could affect you that much. What was it about him in particular that… I don’t know.’

Zayn? You mean, why him?’ Harry frowned and hesitated for a moment, ‘Honestly? I don’t even know any more. Like, he’s great, obviously, and when I fell for him I loved every single thing about him, down to that stupid Perrie tattoo. You know. Everything. But it doesn’t explain why it was so hard to… why I even  _ let _ myself feel that much. It wasn’t like me,’ he paused and smiled at a sudden thought, ‘Maybe it was that city. You know, New York can make you feel very lonely and, like,  _ crave _ human touch.’

‘God, I’ve never lived in a city that would make me crave human touch,’ Louis said. ‘London has the opposite effect. I’m always like “get off me”! And I wait for astronaut suits to be in fashion, so I can walk around in one.’

Harry chuckled, shifting a little on the bed to get a better view of Louis' moonlit face.

He had never imagined it would be Louis, of all people, that he’d finally open to. But it happened. And it felt good. Louis asked questions and listened in a way that made it easy for Harry to be sincere for a moment. Louis made it easy to actually think about things.

So then Harry talked some more.

He told Louis that he had just started working on a new album, but it was hard to write regularly when Los Angeles offered so many distractions. He said he wanted to move again, somewhere quiet and peaceful this time, where few people knew him. He even started to describe a house he’d like to rent, a small place on the outskirts of the city, not far from the seashore.

‘Dublin?’ Louis whispered. He was half-lying on the bed now, listening intently with his eyes searching Harry’s face in the semidarkness. ‘Why would you want to live there?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I always liked Dublin. I can picture myself in one of those little houses in Howth, writing my book. Whittling.’

‘You  _ grandpa _ ,’ Louis shook his head with a grin.

‘Shut up!’

They didn’t talk much more that night. Louis said goodnight and went back to the room he was sharing with Niall, hoping to get at least a few hours of sleep.

Harry stayed in bed even though he felt completely awake.

He was thinking about future. The mental images he painted while talking to Louis were so clear and realistic they made the little bedroom and his Los Angeles apartment seem like a dream vision. For the first time in months Harry was overwhelmed by happy excitement.

He pictured a little whitewashed house overlooking the Irish Sea. A study he’d actually care to decorate, and a desk by which he would write his album. A bigger, more comfortable guest room. A guest.

A lovely, enigmatic Louis Tomlinson sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hands.

The thought made Harry’s heart flutter slightly, as if it was moving in its sleep.

**____________**

 


	3. Part Three: Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three: Touch
> 
> AU • NSFW-ish • ± 2900
> 
> “The world has slipped from my hands  
> and I’m not even sad about this.” – A. Rojek

**_____________**

Running makes him feel free.

Every now and then the air hits his face with an almost tangible blow smelling of sea salt and wet grass. There are little balls of seafoam floating in the air, carried all the way up here by strong gusts of wind. Maybe it means the storm is coming. Or maybe it’s just a normal thing that people living on this funny little island don’t even notice any more.

Louis takes in a lungful of cold salty air and lets it out with a noiseless laugh. It feels so good to be out here. And it will be even better to go back to Harry’s place, where he’s already making lunch for the two of them. Or whittling. Who knows what he’s up to, really.

Louis slows down having reached the peak of a hill from which he can see the seashore down below, now lit by the sun shining through a gap between fast moving clouds.

He watches the view for the last time, trying to remember as many details as possible.

Then he turns on his heel and runs back to the house.

____ ____ ____

They spend the day like almost every other one since Louis' arrival, except that they only go out for an hour or so, just to get some groceries and stop briefly at the Polish café.

Once they‘re back, neither of them feels like doing anything special to acknowledge that this is Louis' last night in the house, so they settle in the least chilly room downstairs and just talk lazily about their friends, Harry’s new book, and the inexplicable absence of lactose-free ice cream from local shops.

Then it gets very late, very quickly.

Harry pours the last glass of wine and sits back in the couch, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. It’s not his eyes that are hurting, but he can’t exactly rub his own heart, so this has to do for now. And he does feel a little sleepy. It’s been a long day, though not nearly so long as he’d like it to be. It could last a bit longer. Like, a week. Or a month.

‘You’re sleepy?’ Louis asks with a tiny smile. His own eyes look tired and a little sad, so Harry just nods. He pats Louis' knee gently and watches the smile disappear.

After a moment he realises he’s still looking at Louis' lips, so he forces himself to look away.

‘It sucks that you leave tomorrow.’

‘Yeah. Big time,’ Louis says huskily and clears his throat as if to say more, but for a moment he just keeps studying Harry’s face. ‘Stop frowning. Why are you always frowning.’

‘I thought you liked my forehead butt,’ Harry grins weakly.

‘Yeah, I don’t know if I will if it’s permanent.’

‘It will be, sooner or later.’

The glasses filled with wine are just outside his reach and Harry briefly contemplates whether or not a few more sips would be too much, given how hot and miserable he feels already.

‘You’re gonna be fine, right?’ Louis asks, and it sounds strangely loud in the quiet room. Harry’s playlist ended about an hour earlier, but he didn’t bother to reach for his laptop and choose a new one. ‘You’ll remember to eat and socialize when I’m gone?’

‘Yep.’

‘And you’re not going to spontaneously decide you’re moving to, like, Cornwall or the Isle of Man, or something?’

‘The Isle of Man?’ Harry wrinkles his nose, ‘That does sound like a place I’d wanna live in?’

The jokes get worse from there, but Harry refuses to call it a night, even as the conversation stalls. He can well go on feeling this bad. He can do it all night.

He presses the palms of his hands to his flushed cheeks and exhales slowly. Then he stops whatever he’s doing, breathing or blushing, because Louis is touching his hair.

Touching him. With his skin.

Harry’s hands fall back in his lap. A few seconds pass. Nothing really happens, apart from what’s happening, and the only thing that comes to his mind is that someone should say something, because it’s far too quiet in the room. His playlist-

Then Louis' fingers slide lower down, onto his neck, and Harry shuts his eyes closed.

The touch is light and gentle, and almost unbearable. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been touched in a while, or because it’s Louis touching him, Harry doesn’t know at the moment.

What he does know is that his heart’s beating painfully fast. And his breath is about to catch up, inevitably, though it already seems like the loudest sound in the room. The weather’s making some noises outside but it’s not enough, unless there’s going to be a tornado.

So they really,  _ really _ should be talking right now.

The fingers on his neck stop moving, except for Louis' thumb, which is still stroking his skin, running up and down underneath the collar of his shirt. Harry tries to put an end to the frantic train of thought, and turns to look at Louis.

Louis' eyes are no longer sad. There is no question in them, no fear. This isn’t even a challenge. He looks perfectly calm, like he knows what is going to happen and he’s already come to terms with that.

But most of all, Louis looks like he’s about to kiss him. So instead of letting him, or stopping him, Harry leans in.

He rests his head on Louis' shoulder, closing his eyes again to focus on breathing, which suddenly seems like a superpower he doesn’t fully control.

‘Hey. Uh. Louis?’ he mumbles into the folds of Louis' sweater and waits for him to respond in some kind of a normal, rational way, maybe ruffle his hair and pull back with a laugh. The threads of the thick cardigan are pressing into Harry’s face and he’s suddenly aware that right beneath them there is a body, radiating warmth.

Louis wraps both arms around him, carefully, as if not to startle him. And Harry sighs, feeling warm skin against his forehead. He lets out a quiet shaky laugh, just to give some purpose to the air that’s trying to escape his lungs all of a sudden.

‘It’s okay. I mean, I don’t know,’ Louis murmurs, and his breath is burning, but Harry shudders as if it was ice cold. So he giggles helplessly, before finally lifting his head.

Their eyes meet and Harry’s lips stretch into a smile, almost without his will.

Louis smiles back. He bends to nuzzle Harry’s cheek, and now all it takes is to shift a little bit. Just an inch or so, and then their lips meet as well.

Harry can feel his knees, his entire body go weak in an instant.

He parts his lips and he just lets it go, as Louis' tongue brushes against his lower lip, and his teeth, sealing off his mouth. Then he can taste the kiss, and hear it, and it’s like he’s slowly remembering what feeling feels like.

It’s starting to rain outside. Maybe the storm is coming, finally. Louis said in the morning there’s going to be a storm. Something about seafoam.

Harry’s hands wander up slowly, feeling Louis' ribs through the cardigan.

Louis freezes and it sounds like his breath caught in his throat for a second, but instead of pulling back he pushes forward, without any warning. Their teeth clash and the next moment he’s on top of Harry.

And his body is pinning him to the couch, warm and soft, and heavy.

Harry can’t move. Their legs are tangled in the cushions and blankets he keeps piling up in every room of this cold house, and he wriggles in an attempt to get free, at first gingerly, then with growing desperation.

‘What are you doing, exactly?’ Louis asks, glancing down at the mess of limbs and blankets, and back at Harry’s face.

‘Um. No, I just… can’t move.’

‘You’re moving  _ a lot _ for someone who can’t move.’

Harry chuckles at that, and lets his body relax a little. His head falls back on the cushions. He’s looking into Louis' eyes for the first time since they kissed.

And it’s the most beautiful Louis he’s ever seen.

He’s right here, looking every bit as overwhelmed as Harry feels. And maybe it really is okay? Or maybe it’s just something he really, really wants, for a change. Either way.

Harry reaches up and puts a gentle hand on the back of Louis' neck, pulling him down. He opens his mouth slightly even before they kiss, and he’s almost sure that Louis smiles in the tiny moment before it happens. Then it happens, and it’s both scary and wonderful that Louis tastes familiar this time, as if there was no difference between kissing once and kissing a hundred times.

So later when Louis sits up, straddling his hips and taking off the cardigan, Harry doesn’t falter.

And when Louis looks down with a mixture of amusement, worry and a million other things, asking: ‘You’re sure you’ve done this before?…,’ he just grins, raising to meet his, and it’s like he’s being lifted by something stronger than him.

____ ____ ____

The blankets are everywhere now, tangled not only with each other but also with various pieces of clothing. At least they come in handy now.

The first time their bodies met without any clothing barrier (which was absolutely necessary), Louis felt like he was waking up from a dream about home.

His throat clenched painfully, and he wrapped his arms around Harry, wanting him closer, all over his skin. That strange feeling of homesickness didn’t leave him for a long moment, even as warmth started to spread in his chest, in his stomach, between his legs. He wanted Harry to touch him, he really did, but first he needed to revel in that moment.

And now Louis realises they can’t do much with zero distance between their bodies. Like, there should be minimum space for hands and mouths and such. He’s about to move, but then Harry shifts beneath him again and okay, they  _ can _ do things.

There’s a hipbone pressing into him, and Louis holds his breath so as not to make a noise, which is really just a habit from the college years, completely unnecessary in a detached suburban house. Instead, it’s the man beneath him that moans and Louis is puzzled for a second, but then he feels how hard he is against Harry’s cool skin, and it makes sense then. A lot of things do.

Louis lifts his head and blinks a few times as his eyes focus on the soft white skin on Harry’s neck. Louis' teeth have left red marks where he was biting it. Because apparently that’s what he does.

‘Oh shit, sorry.’

‘What?’ Harry whispers breathlessly, looking like he wouldn’t mind, or notice, if someone bit off his entire arm right now. So Louis just shrugs and bends to kiss at the bruises. He hopes they won’t look that bad later. They probably will, though.

He slides his tongue along the patch of skin right below Harry’s jawline, which feels ridiculously good, and Harry rolls his hips again, but this time neither of them stays quiet. Louis responds, and suddenly there’s more purpose in the way their bodies move against each other.

Harry’s breathing is fast and shallow, like his own, but after a moment Louis decides this position isn’t really working for both of them. It bothers him, for some reason, so he ignores all the other feelings that are getting harder to ignore with every second, and revisits the idea of making a better use of his hands.

His right hand is trapped under Harry’s back. The left one seems inadequate for the task, so he needs to retrieve this one, ideally without falling off the couch.

There’s a quiet whimper of protest, but he shuts Harry’s mouth with another kiss, before reaching down.

He has to push him away a little bit, and at this point, when Louis' fingers press lightly into the soft flesh of his stomach, Harry seems to notice what is about to happen. He freezes under the touch.

Louis freezes too. He’s aware now how quickly Harry’s chest is rising and falling, how every breath he draws ends with a tiny whimper. They don’t say anything, even though some things should be said now, probably. But Louis can’t think of a single word that would make sense, apart from “fuck,” and maybe “Jesus.”

So he presses his lips to Harry’s cheek instead and stays like that, his eyes half closed. Then he exhales slowly, letting his fingers slide down the last couple of inches. And then some more.

Harry’s arms jerk a little and he gasps sharply, right next to Louis' ear. It sounds loud, like a sob. But his voice is quiet when he says ‘Oh god,’ and then he’s saying it over and over, and Louis can feel his jaw move gently under his lips.

He can feel so much right now it’s making him dizzy.

His mind goes blank momentarily and he lets his body move on instinct, not daring to think about what he’s doing. Then slowly, slowly, he allows his thoughts to say it. And it’s very simple.

Harry feels good. He feels really good and really soft, though mostly hard, in a way that makes Louis' body react in the strangest ways.

A sudden surge of tenderness makes him zone out for a second, but it doesn’t last long because now Harry is writhing beneath him, and this clearly isn’t the best time for thinking. Louis tries to refocus on what his fingers are doing and to control his usually awkward hands, because the last thing he wants right now is to hurt Harry.

Harry seems to have an issue with that.

But instead of saying “Look, I’m not  _ that _ delicate,” he reaches down, clasping his fingers around Louis' wrist. He presses, and then he bucks his hips in a move that has both of them moaning.

And then Louis loses his mind.

____ ____ ____

Harry’s heart is beating wildly inside his ribcage, like a trapped bird.

He tries to remember what he said when he came. He could have said anything, and nothing in the world could have stopped him.

In those last few seconds before the orgasm hit, he felt a rush of emotion that was almost like panic, making him push forward and cling to Louis' body with sudden desperation. But by some miracle Louis knew what to do and the next moment Harry was back on the couch, lying limp in Louis' arms, and all the thoughts he’d been turning over and over in his head until they made him sick, all of them disappeared for one perfect moment.

It’s over now. And Louis' lips are all over Harry’s face, kissing away tiny beads of sweat from his skin. Their breathing’s calming down, the room is quiet again; silence after a storm.

Louis was saying things too; things that will be hard to forget when he gets on his plane tomorrow. But that’s one of the thoughts that make Harry sick, so he pushes it at the back of his head, while trying to swallow. His throat is still dry from panting.

Soft lips running along his jawline stop and Louis props himself up on one forearm. He pushes his hair back with the other hand before bringing it down to Harry’s chest, where he runs his fingers over the tattoo there. Harry watches his eyes, bright and dark, heavy-lidded.

‘Stop frowning. Why are you always frowning,’ Louis says, and pecks at Harry’s forehead. ‘There, I kissed your butt.’

Harry laughs abruptly, earning a crooked smile from Louis.

‘Hey, Harry?’

‘Mmm?’

‘We did it.’

‘I know,’ Harry whispers back and grins, because Louis is being ridiculous and somehow it’s the one thing he needs right now to stay lucid.

‘ _ I  _ did it.’

‘Yes, Louis. Well done. You totally did it,’ Harry giggles louder, feeling the warmth of tears gathering under his eyelids.

‘Thanks,’ Louis murmurs, shifting slightly in the narrow space between Harry’s body and the back of the couch. ‘Ouch, god. Don’t you think we’re too old for this, though?’

‘What, for sex? God, I hope not. I’m not even in my eighties yet.’

‘No, I mean, for couch sex.’

‘We can go to bed, if you want?’

Louis hums in approval. But a moment passes and neither of them moves.

‘Okay,’ Harry murmurs with his eyes closed. He can feel Louis' eyelashes stroke his cheek like tiny feathers.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That we’d have to get up and get dressed and walk up the stairs, and…’

Harry doesn’t let him finish; he lifts his head and kisses blindly at the corner of Louis' mouth, and then at his lips, which are still smiling.

A familiar feeling is back and he knows for a fact that he isn’t too old or too tired for any of this.

At least not tonight.

_____________

 


	4. Part Four: Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four: Taste
> 
> AU • SFW • ± 2300
> 
> “I’d risen this morning  
> determined to break  
> the spell of my longing  
> and not to think.”
> 
> – PJ Harvey

**______________**

Running makes him feel free.

It’s a control thing, to some degree. Louis likes the brief illusion of being in command of his body parts which usually seem disconnected from his brain. And it’s nice to make his own choices as he goes; tiny dumb ones that are of no real consequence.

For Louis, the best part about jogging is the built-in dumbness of it all. Unlike quantum physics or, say, human interaction, it has almost no potential of going terribly wrong.

This morning he feels like jogging along the Thames Path southwest to Battersea Park, which doesn’t make a lot of sense. If he was more reasonable, he’d choose the comfortable paths along the Canal or Two Bridges. But the thing is – he doesn’t have to.

So he settles for the narrowing paths of the Thames, where he gets soon after the opening hour, before the park gets too crowded. Which means Louis is barely awake when he starts his run, looking out for the little curb things that pop up on his way every now and then, making the whole experience feel more like an obstacle course.

In return for these inconveniences, he gets to see London wake up at his feet, the first rays of sun hitting the metal and glass of the city as he runs thirty feet above its streets.

Or, on days like this, the first drops of rain.

Today Louis doesn’t stop to admire the view. He stays focused on the path beneath his sneakers, moving faster and faster until his lungs feel like they’re on fire, and a dull ache settles in his right shoulder like every time he pushes himself too hard.

But he doesn’t slow down. This is what he needs to deal with the thoughts littering his mind. When they surprise him at random times of day and night, his heart behaves like a pet animal that’s not fully domesticated and forgets where it is for one scary second.

So he has to let them all out, at once. While getting sweaty and exhausted, because chemistry.

There’s about two hundred yards of his usual route left, and Louis makes the first half thinking of one night in Los Angeles which he spent with an old friend. A friend who looked thinner and paler than ever before, but was talking about future with a happy disbelieving smile, as if he’d just discovered the concept.

The rest of the path is a shitty cold house in Howth, where nothing worked, and where he spent one of the best weeks of his life.

A raindrop hits Louis' lip and he licks it off reflexively, before spitting. He frowns. The rain is probably toxic; he could just as well drink straight from a muddle.

Then he almost misses his stairway, caught up in thoughts on the content of the air he’s breathing in large quantities.

But there it is. Now every step on his way down is a minute he spent in a gross Dublin café, listening to some weird indie music. Listening to Harry talk about his past like it had happened to someone else.

Louis' muscles hurt but he keeps on moving because this is a good kind of pain, unlike the one triggered by his memories. Now they’re blending together into a fairly manageable experience, and it’s like he’s dealing with things.

He has to stop when he reaches the bottom of the stairway, where a flock of tourists block the exit. They stare at his flushed skin, strands of hair drenched with sweat sticking to his face. He ignores them, and as soon as the path is clear he starts running again.

The sidewalk, the crossing, and the last street leading to his house stand for one memory, which in fact consists of a billion tiny memories, so it has to be broken down.

It’s a grey IKEA couch that was way too small for all the pillows and blankets and their bodies on top of that mess. It’s Harry’s hair, smelling like home. The taste of his skin, and how they almost fell on the floor when he arched from the pillows. Harry’s mouth on him. A cold room which wasn’t that cold any more.

Louis stumbles on the steps to his apartment complex, and opens the entrance door with trembling hands. Raindrops mixed with sweat make his clothes stick to his skin, and he  _ hates _ it.

Inside, he gets to choose between an elevator and five flights of stairs.

He should probably go for the stairs and deal with a few more issues. Like the fact that it’s unsurprisingly hard to forget someone once you’ve learnt what they taste like.

Then again, Louis can already feel the numbing effect of exhaustion.

Enough’s enough.

____ ____ ____

‘I fucking  _ hate  _ running.’

Niall doesn’t realise he said it out loud until a few people turn to stare at him, their faces displaying various shades of indifference. He shrugs and leans against the doors, panting furiously and ignoring the clearly marked safety warnings. Maybe he would sit down in a  _ seat _ , like people do, if these goddamn tube trains had more cars. Or fewer passengers.

At least there’s a chance he’ll get to Notting Hill early enough to edit and send off the new song he’s been writing before midnight. Talk about sacrifice, he thinks, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He gets off the tube train ten minutes later, and then only stops on his way home to make some provisions for an evening of writing. His mood improves significantly at the prospect of rewarding himself for all the hard work with a couple of mojitos.

_ A couple _ . Niall shakes his head with a smile. Then he realises he’s mumbling to himself while walking up a crowded street, and the thought makes him grin even wider.

It’s moments like this that make him feel like a true Londoner.

So all in all, Niall’s in a relatively good mood when he trips over a large suitcase just a few feet away from the entrance to his block.

‘What the hell?!’

He’s pretty sure there were no pieces of luggage lying about in the street when he was leaving the building a few hours earlier. Is someone moving in? Because he just talked to the landlord the other day and-

‘Oh, sorry. Shit. Hi. Sorry I put it there. The cab driver was  _ really  _ rude, I almost forgot what it’s like to live in this city.’

Niall blinks like he’s not entirely sure if this isn’t a lucid dream. But his lips are already stretching in an impossibly wide smile.

‘Holy fuck. Harry?’

____ ____ ____

When life offers him an excuse for making more than a couple of drinks while doing no writing whatsoever, Niall usually accepts and embraces it, feeling grateful.

But tonight he’s too worried and confused to taste victory in his drink. He’s very happy to see Harry, of course. Mainly worried, though.

‘Well, no, Louis didn’t tell me about any of this.’

‘He didn’t?’ Harry frowns and rubs at his cheek, where a bright red blush is slowly fading. ‘Not even… anything?’

‘Not even anything,’ Niall says, trying to stick to the matter-of-fact tone he’s successfully kept so far. Harry takes his time to process the announcement, so he continues: ‘We didn’t talk that much since he got back, to be honest. I saw him maybe once, he said he’s busy. Hey, you know what’s funny?’

Harry looks up at him like ‘funny’ is a foreign word. He shakes his head.

‘Louis and I, we used to joke that once he’d move to London he wouldn’t talk to me any more. Like, I’ll be that embarrassing friend from his past he won’t introduce to his new posh friends.’

Harry can’t help grinning at that. ‘But he doesn’t actually avoid you, Ni?’

‘Yeah, like he’d dare. I’d show him a whole new level of embarrassment,’ Niall snorts, but then he’s serious again, ‘Harry, you know what Louis is like. I think it’s safe to assume you probably know him way better than I do, now that… yeah. But, see, I’m not surprised he didn’t tell me. I’m very fucking surprised by some other details, but this? Totally like him.’

Harry nods, absentminded. Then he makes an inarticulate noise and hides his face in his hands.

‘Hey, it’s okay, don’t…’

‘Fuck, I’m such an idiot,’ Harry mumbles from behind his hands, ‘I shouldn’t have talked to you before I saw him. Why didn’t I go see him first?’

‘Yeah… Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind,’ Niall says, as if to himself, rubbing Harry’s back gently.

‘This is like Junior High,’ Harry chuckles after a moment and sits back, wiping his eyes with one hand.

‘I thought you didn’t date boys in high school.’

‘Well… clearly.’

Niall reaches for his drink. His fingers fidget around the rim of the glass, and he takes a long gulp to prepare for the questions he’s going to ask. Then another one to prepare for the answers, because this thing has disaster written all over it.

‘So, before Louis left, did you guys have a proper conversation? Something along the lines of “how a night of man sex might affect our friendship”?’

‘Umm. Yeah. No. We didn’t really talk about it, after. It wasn’t weird or anything. We just didn’t.’

‘You just didn’t. Okay. And did you tell him you’d come to London?’

‘No. I wasn’t going to, until yesterday, and-’

‘The fuck is wrong with you, Harry?’ Niall cuts in, frowning.

Harry sighs and looks him in the eye for a moment. ‘A lot. But I’m pretty sure nothing was wrong with me when Louis and I were together. It felt … god, you’ll laugh at me. But, you know this feeling when it’s like, one moment you don’t want to get up from bed and there’s nothing in the world that could get you moving-’

‘Bladder,’ Niall says gravely, ‘People have to pee, Harry. You can’t convince me otherwise.’

‘Yeah… yeah, right. So just imagine that one morning it wasn’t just my  _ bladder, _ as romantic as it sounds. No, I wanted to do things, just move and live for a bunch of hours, because he was there, and I was getting up to see his stupid face, you know?’

Harry’s voice is shaking a little towards the end and he seems somewhat out of breath, so Niall shushes him and squeezes Harry’s knee lightly.

‘It’s okay. Breathe. You know, Harry, this might shock you, but I’m not a judgmental bitch by any standards. And the only reason I’m worried right now is that, well, you aren’t exactly right in the head, honey, and Louis is… Louis. But there’s a chance it won’t end in tears, right? To start with, it’s a  _ very  _ good sign you aren’t running from him right now but rather going  _ after  _ him. That’s why you’re here, right?’

Harry nods, and then he nods a couple times more.

‘Good. See? Progress.’

Niall’s words slowly sink in, and suddenly Harry snorts with laughter, flipping off the blonde.

‘Not right in the head? Seriously?’

‘Also not that quick on the uptake. Just sayin’,’ Niall laughs, even as he bends to kiss at Harry’s cheek.

‘God, you’re the worst. How do you even get away with saying these things?’

‘I don’t know, bro! If you said something like that to me, I’d slap you.’

Harry giggles with visible relief. He grabs one of Niall’s cushions, a pretty velvet one embroidered with the phrase “ _ I know where you live, _ ” and he turns it in his hands, wondering if it would make any sense for him to try and explain stuff. He could try.

‘You know, it’s hard to explain, but…’ Harry starts, and clears his throat, ‘you see, for a while I’ve felt like I’m in a foreign country. It doesn’t matter where I am; I went places and it’s always the same. I don’t even know how to talk to people any more, sometimes. It comes and goes, this feeling, and then… but with Louis it was different. Like I met someone who actually spoke the same language, you know? ’

‘You mean he understood you?’

‘Not really,’ Harry smiles, ‘He didn’t, actually. But, just, I liked the way he didn’t understand me.’

‘Okay,’ Niall sighs with a dismissive wave of his hand, ‘As much as I envy you these telepathic powers, I don’t think you should give up on fucking  _ words _ , Harry. I mean, I get it, okay, you guys always seemed to get each other without saying anything remotely relevant, but, like… just go and talk to this boy, for god’s sake,’ he groans, rubbing at his temples.

Harry chuckles at this sudden change of tone and pats Niall’s knee like the head of an old, faithful pet.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I will.’

____ ____ ____

Hours later, when Niall falls asleep with the last piece of sage advice on his lips, Harry’s too exhausted to follow suit.

He gets up with difficulty and flicks the light switch off. It doesn’t make a lot of difference; there are huge neon signs right outside the window, like a poor imitation of moonlight.

There are people outside, too. He can hear a few shouts, uneven footsteps, and the shrill laughter of some drunk girls. They seem close, just a few yards away. Harry comes up to the window and looks out, but he can’t see anyone.  

He stays there for a few more minutes, because he can now feel a different kind of closeness. A familiar one.

It warms him up a little, like it always does, and Harry smiles, looking at a tiny fracture of the city which contains himself, and Niall, and Louis. They’ll all wake up here tomorrow, like three goldfish in the same aquarium.

Which is pretty incredible.

After a moment Harry turns away from the window and crawls back on the couch. He stays awake for a few more hours, just lying there, listening to the quiet ebb and flow of Niall’s breathing.

**_____________**


	5. Part Five: Some sort of a sixth sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU • SFW • ± 1900
> 
> … Harry smiles, looking at a tiny fracture of the city which contains himself, and Niall, and Louis. They’ll all wake up here tomorrow, like three goldfish in the same aquarium.
> 
> Which is pretty incredible.

The afternoon is steadily seeping in through loose window frames, mixed with the noises of traffic and curry-scented fumes from the nearest Indian restaurant.

Niall blinks once, tentatively, and the light-

‘Oh  _ fuck me _ .’

The light hurts his face.

Waking up with a hangover is his daily bread, but it gets really bad combined with this strange dream that keeps coming back to him lately. It’s a dream where he wants to close his eyes. Some sort of a greyish light is shining straight at his face, and Niall tries, really tries to make use of his eyelids.

But then he realises there are no eyelids in his dream.

And at this point he always wakes up, covered in a sheen of sweat, thinking how fucked up his brain must be to have come up with that idea and to stick with it for so long.

This must be the terrible price he’s paying for being a comedy genius. And for not remembering to draw the curtains at night. Because it seems that every time the sun bothers to actually shine down on New York, it chooses Niall’s face for its target, like he’s a moon or something.

Niall rubs at his face. He makes to turn on his other side, away from the window, when he realises he’s lying on the edge of a couch. His couch.

Also, there should be someone else here, somewhere.

‘Harry?’

Niall’s voice sounds rusty and a little desperate, as if he was dying of thirst in the middle of a desert. Which, in fact, is not very far from how he feels at the moment.

But there’s no answer, and when Niall forces his eyes open again, he realises he is alone in the room. And maybe there’s no one else in the apartment after all.

Which means that  _ maybe _ Harry left earlier to sort out the mess. The love thing. The, whatever.

Niall’s heartbeat picks up a notch at the thought and he gets up from the couch, careful not to move his head too quickly. He can’t remember taking out his contact lenses, but he clearly did it at some point, unless the material world has turned into a blurry abstract painting overnight. Niall doesn’t like either possibility, but he’d rather know where his contacts are. The shit’s expensive.

He inspects every corner of his tiny apartment, making a mental note of a dripping faucet and a missing umbrella. A moment later he slouches into an armchair with his phone in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Then he just continues to sit, and hold things, while wishing he didn’t have to feel so nervous about calling his best friend. The feeling’s worse than a hangover. For one thing, Niall’s 99% sure he’s done nothing to deserve it.

He clears his throat and cusses a few times to test his voice.

Could be worse.

____ ____ ____

Louis wakes up to the sound of a screeching crow, which is an omen foreshadowing pain, misfortune, and terrible indigestion. If you believe the folk tales.

Not that he knows that many folk tales. It just seems logical that hearing an awful sound while waking up from an awful dream can’t be a beginning of something beautiful. This is clearly going to be a shitty day.

Not unlike every single one in the last couple of weeks.

Louis slowly lifts his head from the pillow and rolls onto his back with a sigh. He looks to his right and there really is a crow, perched on the ledge behind the window.

‘’Sup,’ he mumbles, and covers his eyes with one forearm, because the light is a little too bright. Not sunny bright, or cheerful bright. Just bright.

Then he can see the scenes from his dream projected on the inside of his eyelids, which isn’t something Louis wants to see right now, so he quickly removes the arm and sits up, tossing his duvet aside.

The dream wasn’t exactly  _ awful _ . As a matter of fact, it was probably way better than whatever this day might have in store. But it doesn’t change the fact that he would happily not have dreamt it at all.

This is a thing that happens every morning now; he wakes up from dreams about Harry, every single time, and at this point he’s pretty much run out of ideas for dealing with it. Like the jogging sessions which were supposed to help him forget things through remembering them over and over again. (He never seriously expected this strategy to work, of course.)

The worst part is that these aren’t even the kind of dreams that people usually mean when they say “I dreamed of you…,” with an audible ellipsis that’s supposed to make you think of the most indecent scenarios.

Well, at least not  _ all  _ of them are like that.

If Louis were to tell the last one to Harry, it would go more-less like this: “Hey Harry, I dreamed that I touched your head and then we also talked about how much you liked broccoli and moonlight. Your eyes looked very pretty and, like, brooding.”

That’s it. That’s literally what it was.

He’s had actual human sex with that person, that man, but all he can think of these days is how his eyelashes grow downwards. And last night he almost bought a certain brand of shampoo on Amazon.

That doesn’t seem acceptable in the world of adult emotions. No wonder Louis feels so goddamn stupid all the time, thinking all those thoughts about a friend who doesn’t even call him any more. And now he’s also turning into this crazy person who talks to crows.

Fortunately, the rest of his morning isn’t very painful, despite the omens. Louis manages to go through his workout routine, a meeting with his manager and a business lunch, without falling prey to any existential traps. He even feels like shooting a vlog for his somewhat neglected fans.

The phone starts ringing when he’s setting up his camera, trying to balance it on top of a shaky pile of books.

He knows it’s Niall, because no other contact has a stupid 90s pop song assigned to it, but for a moment Louis feels a weird urge to ignore the call.

Then he shakes it off and picks up.

‘Hello.’

‘Louis! Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve a great excuse, namely, our mutual friend abducted my best semi-formal umbrella. So. How are things?’

‘Uh. I don’t get that part about umbrellas, but apart from that… Look, Niall, I’m sorry I didn’t call you last week, I-’

‘No, no, bro, it’s okay. I know you’re busy with stuff. And other sort of stuff.’

Louis can almost hear Niall wink, because he sounds every bit as if he was referring to some inside joke. Except it can’t be very inside, because Louis doesn’t get it.

There’s a moment of silence, until Niall breaks it with a more tentative ‘Louis?’

‘Yeah? Sorry, Niall, I think we aren’t on the same wavelength right now.’

‘Oh. You didn’t… Fuck. Oh, shit.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No, I was thinking that you’re, like, did you hear from uuh, anyone?’ Niall stutters, sounding like he’s just tried to bite off his own tongue halfway through the sentence.

At this point Louis realises the full extent of his bad mood, because the conversation is starting to annoy him. And Louis is never,  _ ever _ , tired of Niall. He’s the one person who can always make him laugh and relax, regardless of events or conditions.

But for some reason the magic isn’t working right now.

‘Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? Can’t you just say it? With words that make actual sense,’ he says, forcing a laugh, which does very little to mask his annoyance.

And of course Niall can tell. He’s much better at guessing Louis' emotions than their owner. There’s a quiet groan, and then Niall seems to realise that this conversation was a bad idea from the start, but before he manages to hang up, Louis connects the dots.

Almost. Just enough for his stomach to sink.

‘Wait. Who did you think I’d heard from?’

____ ____ ____

Harry wakes up around noon.

He knows it’s very late the moment he takes the first deeper breath and his heart starts to beat frantically, as if it’s been waiting for that sign to tell him some terrible news.

He tries to stretch his legs. Niall is fast asleep next to him, looking very pretty with the sun rays stroking his face. Harry sits up slowly, careful not to wake the blonde.

Judging by the sounds coming from the street the city has been awake for a while, and Harry feels like he’s showed up to the cinema having missed the first half of a film. His mouth tastes like yesterday’s drinks and jetlag. In fact, everything’s gross and depressing and he might never want to leave Niall’s couch again, ever.

He hates missing out on mornings. They’re for doing things, and eating, and thinking. Talking to the boy he should have talked to weeks ago. Not  _ this _ .

If it was up to Harry, he’d take a tube and turn up in Louis' apartment with a long speech on the incurable loneliness of human heart, and a bottle of chardonnay. But right now he can barely make himself get up and brush his teeth.

Since when Harry’s actions aren’t up to him is a mystery, but he goes with it, and decides to spend the rest of the already wasted day feeling mildly annoyed with himself whilst walking the streets of London. In rain. (There’s no rain yet, but he’s counting on it.)

As Harry makes his way to the bathroom, he can hear Louis' voice in his head, calling him all sorts of names in the most non-aggressive manner. He smiles. It reminds him of something Niall said last night, something about telepathy.

He continues his interior monologue in the shower; then he puts on some clothes from his suitcase and leaves Niall’s apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

He plunges into busy streets and walks on without a plan, just to move forward.

After a few minutes it starts to rain, albeit reluctantly, as if the clouds sensed his mood, losing all the enthusiasm for sprinkling water at people.

Harry opens the umbrella he took with him, which turns out to have a French fries pattern printed on the fabric. Not sunflowers, like he thought.

He hesitates only for a moment. It’s most likely just a joke from Niall’s collection, but it seems to be doing its job.

This part of Richmond doesn’t look very familiar, but Harry isn’t too concerned with directions or landmarks. He likes the idea of getting lost for a moment. Like a tiny, tiny fish in the thick London soup.

Maybe he should get lunch.

Maybe he should say hi to Louis. And kiss him. Or just kiss him, without any preambles.

Harry’s eyes slide listlessly over red-brick walls, and he has to dodge every now and then to avoid other pedestrians armed with their umbrellas, but his thoughts wander freely and he almost forgets he has a body, until someone else’s body crashes into it. Hard.

The pain brings him back to reality. It brings him back to…

‘Oh my god… Harry?’

He instantly remembers he has a complete set of body parts. Along with a heart, which is presently in his throat.

**____________**


	6. Part Six: Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Six: Later
> 
> AU • SFW • ± 2400
> 
> “How do I begin to say all of the things that are in my head?“

It’s getting late.

Niall glances up at the light-polluted sky that’s just visible above the blocks of flats dominating the view from his window. It probably won’t get any darker tonight.

He looks back at the computer screen to check the time. Half past nine. He rubs at his eyes and refreshes the page.

It took a while, but Niall finally managed to tweet some fans, with a 30-hour delay. Not even close to his record, but less likely to go unnoticed by the fans, who actually expect him to stick to a regular schedule these days.

What these kids don’t know is that it’s not Niall’s fault this time.

It’s Harry’s.

The fans would be very interested to know  _ that _ , for sure. Niall’s still getting dozens of Harry-related questions under every single tweet, though it’s been over a year since his friend abandoned a crazy popular Boy band in order to pursue the career of a lovesick vagabond.

Which Niall has been nothing but supportive about, for the record.

He doesn’t understand most of Harry’s decisions, but that’s a different thing. He can be an excellent friend to Harry Styles without ever knowing exactly what’s going on in his head. As far as Niall’s concerned, it could be a mix of poetry, gay porn, and sushi. He doesn’t care.

Except maybe in moments like this, when he’s supposed to relax and have a fun Saturday night despite knowing that Harry’s out there, somewhere, doing god knows what.

Niall jumps a little when his phone buzzes on the couch, buried under pillows and a few random pieces of clothing. He digs through the mess, swearing under his breath. It better be an elaborate answer to all the texts he’s sent this evening.

It’s Louis.

_ Hey. Sorry I was a jerk earlier (I’m not any more). Haven’t heard from Harry but I think I know where he is. So stop worrying about him. Yes you are. Stop it. x _

A strange combination of relief and disappointment washes over Niall, giving rise to all sorts of feelings he’d rather not be feeling right now. That is, if he had a choice.

But he clearly doesn’t, and now his eyes are stinging and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. So great job, self-restraint. He gets up from the couch, stretching with a wince.

Sometimes, Niall likes to think of himself as a majestic fiery torpedo. (Or a baby skunk.) But when it comes to his friends, he loses all his momentum. He finds himself thinking way, way too much instead of just dealing with problems head-on.

Or accepting he’s not the one who’s supposed to be dealing with them.

It’s just that he always wanted to  _ know _ how to do this right, how to be there for people. How to love them properly. And with time, he found that the only way he can give anything to them is by offering up everything he’s got.

But then, there are people who take exactly nothing from this smorgasbord of goodness. There’s Harry, who just leaves and then reappears out of the blue, only to leave again.

Louis isn’t very different. He actually took the strategy of emigrating away from problems one step further, and seems to have moved to another planet. Communication-wise.

Niall’s simply trying to stick around. It doesn’t hurt his pride or make him anxious. He only wishes it wasn’t so fucking hard for everyone around him to stay relatively happy, because he really isn’t equipped to dealing with all the sadness in the world.

Niall’s still exactly 99% sure he’s done nothing to deserve this. Also, he’s hungry.

He thinks about ordering Chinese. There are coupons and menus on every piece of furniture, so all he has to do is reach for the nearest pile and start flipping through colourful leaflets.

But he isn’t sure if Harry’s going to eat with him, or even be here, for that matter. He could order just for himself but…

Niall swears, quite loudly and obscenely.

Then he goes to the kitchen and makes an impromptu salad, which could maybe feed up to two people. If absolutely necessary.

____ ____ ____

It’s getting too late for anything to happen before it gets even later.

Louis reaches blindly for a pillow, and presses it to his face with both hands. He groans.

The pillow absorbs the sound, and then gets thrown unceremoniously across the room. It hits something with a loud thud and things fall onto the floor. Louis doesn’t give a fuck.

For a moment, because then he remembers not all material objects are replaceable and he promised himself he’d try and stop losing or breaking most of his worldly possessions.

He also remembers he’s a grown man, who shouldn’t be going through emotional pubescence at this point in his life. He should get up, clean up the mess, and try and write some music.

It’s just that he feels like not doing any of these things for a little bit longer.

____ ____ ____

It’s getting late, and he’s tired, hungry, and kind of cold.

He isn’t even sure if he got off the tube at the right stop, and he can’t check the route again. His phone died in the afternoon.

Harry turns around the corner, hoping he’s choosing the right street. He hops aside so as not to collide with a group of middle-aged guys, and for the millionth time today he thinks of himself as a tiny fish trying to swim upstream.

Harry’s heart thuds unevenly in his chest as he realises he’ll probably have to go back to Niall’s place soon. It would actually make more sense at this point, because this isn’t a good time for causal visits and he’s really, really tired, so chances are he’ll say something stupid. Not that it could be worse than saying nothing at all.

Harry makes a few more hesitant steps, and stops, biting his lip.

And then he finds it.

Or rather, it catches his eye, somehow, just as he’s about to turn and walk back to the station.

Right across the street, there’s a blue glass building, and another one, and then the building that Harry knows he’s been looking for all along.

He takes a deep breath, tightening his grip on the handle of Niall’s umbrella.

And then he moves on because it’s really quite late already.

____ ____ ____

The elevator doors swoosh open on the fifth floor.

He walks out into a brightly lit corridor, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor tiles. In front of him, the door to one of the apartments is open, and Harry’s stomach sinks a little because that’s the one.

Louis is there, waiting. It’s darker inside but not dark enough to conceal the fact that his hair looks messy.

The observation makes Harry’s throat close up briefly, and it’s mostly with guilt because he gave the boy no time to prepare for the visit. It’s been just a minute or two since Louis buzzed him in.

It’s also more than guilt, a completely different emotion, but Louis has already said ‘hey’ and Harry can’t wrap his mind around everything that’s happening here, all at once.

‘Hi, Louis,’ he grins, taking a step forward. Then he stalls for a second.

And then he goes for a hug, because ten other options suggested by his brain within that second seem out of the question.

It’s not exactly a hug because he’s holding things, most of which are dripping with water. He just closes the distance between them, until Louis puts a stiff hand around his shoulders. He pats Harry’s back a few times before stepping back to give him some room.

Harry doesn’t know where to start, so he ends up simultaneously unzipping his jacket, placing the umbrella on the floor and tugging at wet shoelaces.

He clears his throat. It’s the only sound in the room apart from the ones he’s making with the sharp, awkward moves of his hands, and the amount of distress it causes him is reminiscent of that time when-

_ Nope _ .

Harry figures he should say something, preferably smart or funny.

‘Thought you’d be more surprised?’ he says.

And almost punches himself in the face.

Louis picks up the umbrella. He touches the soaked fabric, and looks intently at the french fries printed on it. ‘No, I… Niall called me earlier.’

‘Yeah?’

Louis hums a yes, still inspecting the umbrella. ‘Said you took this.’

‘Um, yeah I did, but what does it have to do with…’

‘You tell me,’ Louis snorts and gestures at Harry to follow him. ‘Anyway. He thought you went to see me.’

Harry makes an inarticulate noise that’s supposed to sound like a confirmation but not exactly. It comes out rather weird, so he masks it with a cough and sits on the edge of an armchair.

His eyes sweep the room. It’s not fully furnished yet; some books and documents are just piled up on the floor. Harry tries to remember how long it’s been since Louis moved to London, but he can’t tell for sure.

‘I was out all morning, actually. Niall called in the afternoon,’ Louis continues in an absentminded tone. He’s frowning. He doesn’t sit down on the sofa facing the armchair like Harry thought he would.

He knows that just because Louis isn’t looking at him at the moment doesn’t mean he isn’t  _ looking _ . But he can’t help staring at the frown, at the averted eyes, and Louis' hands, which fidget as he talks. His fingers seem to be wrestling with each other.

‘I thought maybe you’d come by earlier, when I wasn’t home,’ Louis shrugs, with a slightly deeper frown, as if speaking with ease was harder than it looked.

‘No, I, um. I didn’t.’

‘Yeah, I figured.’

Harry opens his mouth to say “but I was going to.”

It wouldn’t be a lie. Harry doesn’t even know where he was going this morning; he wasn’t thinking clearly. Besides, he would’ve probably ended up on Louis' doorstep sooner or later, drawn to him by some irresistible, all-encompassing force.

Except he didn’t. That is, until now. So, technically…

‘I bumped into Zayn.’

It’s out before he can rethink it, and Harry wants to close his eyes. Or scream. But Louis simply mutters a polite “Did you really?” and if Harry had made a resolve to stay cool, it would crumble right now.

_ What is going on _ .

He blinks several times, and says, slowly, ‘You know, Zayn. We met cause he, uh, apparently he’s in London now, too.’

‘Yeah, Harry, I know.’

‘You do? How…?’

Louis shrugs and sits down on the sofa, his fingers wrapping tightly around one knee.

‘Just, last week he tweeted ‘IM GOING BACK TO LONDON’. And then he posted a new one,  _ I’M IN LONDON _ . So, about twenty three million people know about it by now.  _ If _ all of his followers are human. You never know. Like, sometimes I think of mine as genetically modified squirrels,’ Louis chuckles lightly, and then glances at Harry, who just keeps staring. Harry’s face looks pale and rather miserable. ‘Hey, you want something to eat?’

Harry shakes his head. ‘ _ I _ didn’t know he’d be here.’

‘Yeah? How come you found him?’

‘Like I said, we sort of… I, like, crashed into him. In Richmond.’

‘You bumped into Zayn Malik in a city with eight million people.’ It’s not a question, but it doesn’t sound very accusatory either, and yet Harry’s arms stiffen visibly as if he was bracing himself for an attack.

Louis suddenly realises he’s tired and not at all inclined to keep this conversation going.

He’s more focused on trying to remember what’s in his fridge because Harry looks like he’s about to pass out, and frankly, Louis never believed in the power of communication. He doesn’t even know what he’d like to hear, or if it would make any difference.

He clears his throat, trying to sound neutral. ‘So, how was it? Did you freak out?’

Harry scratches his neck nervously. ‘Umm. Yeah? Briefly. I was super unprepared, and I mean, for any sort of human contact. Didn’t even feel like buying lunch though I was kind of starving. And then. So, yeah, I freaked out.’

Harry points in the general direction of his heart, but then seems to change his mind and rubs at his chest instead. ‘And I kind of froze. But he was all like “let’s catch up!” so we went to some place with donuts, and there was that American girl with him It was weird, you know.’

‘Yeah, that… sure sounds weird.’

Louis can think of at least a dozen other questions he could ask right now.

But he also thinks he has enough, for now. They both do.

He gets up, pulling at the hem of his oversized sweater.

‘Okay, so. I guess you must be hungry. Unless Zayn and Gigi took you to a fancy dinner afterwards.’

Harry raises his eyebrows and makes a strange sound, as if he wanted to say something, but then he just nods, looking very, very tired.

‘Okay.’

____ ____ ____

Niall orders himself comfort food from a Chinese restaurant after all. He can sure use some comforting.

He curls up in an armchair, balancing the MacBook on his knees. In moments like this, Niall really wishes he could get a dog. It’d have to be invisible and mute so that no-one in the building would notice. Though if he lived in a  _ normal  _ place he’d totally adopt ten thousand tiny dogs. They would prance happily around the house in tiny top hats and he’d let them do  _ anything _ .

Niall’s phone buzzes as he’s scrolling down the Pet Finder website.

It’s Louis. Niall reads the message, twice, and then he picks up his phone again to read it some more.

After a moment, he puts the phone in his pocket and goes back to looking at pictures of Chihuahuas.

_____________


	7. Part Seven: Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Seven: Cold  
> AU • NSFW-ish • 2900 words
> 
> “does it have to be life full of dread  
> wanna chase you round the table wanna touch your head”
> 
> PJ Harvey, This is Love

**___________________**

It’s dark in the room. And so quiet. He can’t remember being in a place so quiet and liking the silence.

Another moment passes before his eyes open, slow and dry from sleep. He blinks a few times and looks at the palm of his hand, lying open on the pillow like a starfish washed ashore. He flexes his fingers, watching them move lazily.

He can’t remember falling asleep, or not being asleep. It feels different. His heart feels different; it’s so calm now. It’s not trying to jump out of his chest, which is nice for a change. So even though he doesn’t recognise the room, or the time of day, or the blanket tickling his chin, he just keeps breathing calmly, in and out, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

Maybe he’s cured of whatever was causing the panic. He did nothing to make it stop so maybe it just went away, like a cold, and it won’t be here next time he wakes up. That would be nice.

Harry tries to recall the last time waking up wasn’t terrible.

There were those seven mornings in April, when Louis was staying with him in the Dublin house. Through the night, Harry would forget that they were under the same roof, and then each morning he remembered. That was the best feeling. He thought at the time it was the loneliness of the previous months that made him extra happy around Louis, but then things got extra complicated, and Harry stopped thinking for a short while.

Until that day he woke up next to Louis. Who was wrapped in Harry’s sheets. In Harry’s bed.

He had that cold Irish daylight all over his face, and still looked so warm and soft that Harry was afraid to touch him, because his own hands felt strangely cold. So he just watched Louis' face, thinking, how is he just a guest here.

When he woke up the next morning, the sheets, the bed, and the room were still there. Harry was still there too, which suddenly made no sense at all.

Now, this place isn’t familiar. Harry’s too comfortable to move so all he can see at the moment is one corner of the room, filled with random objects lying directly on the floor. Not exactly messy, more like lovingly… On reflection, it is rather messy. But Harry likes it. Maybe it’s the light, soft and filtered through an orange lampshade.

Harry shifts a little bit, pulling down the blanket he can’t remember wrapping himself in. There’s a sudden movement in one of the corners he couldn’t see, and a shadow falls across the floor, creeping up to the sofa on which he’s lying.

‘Oh god, you’re freakishly small,’ Harry whispers. His mouth feels strange, like he’s ill.

His legs get gently pushed aside as Louis sits down on the edge of the sofa. That makes Harry a little more awake and he sits up, rubbing at his face, which feels strange too.

‘What did you say?’

‘You’re tall,’ Harry repeats, struggling to keep at least one eye open.

Louis looks at him intently for a moment. Then he just smiles a tired half-smile, and Harry realises it must be really late. ‘What’s the time?’

‘It was two, last time I checked.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘For what? You can sleep here. Are you okay, by the way? You looked like shit earlier, no offence.’

‘Yeah, I-’

‘You still look like shit. No offence.’

‘Hey!’ Harry lets his head rest on his bent knees for a second, as he tries not to grin too wide. He looks up again. ‘I feel better, actually. And, you know. I’m sorry I came over so late?’

Louis shrugs with one arm, his eyes still smiling under heavy lids.

He doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t really seem like they need to talk, and Harry isn’t even surprised at how easy it feels to just look at each other without any words filling the air. His heartbeat’s picking up the pace, steadily. Not like last time. He’s not anxious.

He clears his throat, twice, but his voice still comes out raspy when he speaks. ‘I was walking around, you know. All day long. We went for coffee, Zayn and I, and um, the American girl. Then I just walked. I’m so, so tired.’

‘Wait, who’s the American girl? His girlfriend, or?’

Harry nods his head, and then laughs abruptly, which turns into a small coughing fit.

‘Please don’t die on my couch…’ Louis murmurs, weakly patting his back in a way that couldn’t really save a life.

‘I’m fine. Uh, yeah, that was some model. Or a singer maybe, can’t remember. She seemed fun. Didn’t talk a lot. Zayn kept asking me about every single thing that ever happened, while I just… wished I wasn’t there, I guess. And she just sat there. Like, really awkward.’

‘Poor American girl.’

‘Yeah.’

Harry looks down where the blanket is still wrapped around his legs, less comfortably than before. He tosses it off. Somehow, he’s feeling too warm and too cold at the same time.

‘Can I get some water?’

____ ____ ____

The clock on the kitchen wall is showing three in the morning.

It does feel like three in the morning. Louis spills some water when he yawns, filling the second glass. He wasn’t that sleepy while sitting on the couch next to Harry, but now in the harsh light of the kitchen lamp his weariness is back. He takes the glasses to the room, and puts one in Harry’s hand.

Louis sits down and takes a sip, but mostly just watches Harry get crossed-eyed over the rim of his glass as he downs the water.

Harry looks warm. Like maybe he has a fever, but also like he’s pretty and cosy. Louis can feel the warmth radiating from Harry’s clothes, mixed with the smell of rain and sleep. He’d like to get closer. To breathe it all in and maybe run his fingers through this messy rain-scented hair. Of course, there’s no reason why Louis couldn’t do all these things right now. But he still hesitates for a moment, because it seems that head-touching is never without consequences.

Finally, he reaches out and tucks a strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear. The curls don’t seem to comply, so he tries again. Then he gives up.

‘Your hair is stupid.’

Harry chuckles, looking pleased with himself. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. Like the rest of you. Wait, aren’t you ill? You seem…’ he presses the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. ‘Damn it, Harry. You’re  _ ill _ .’

‘Yeah, I know. My teeth always tingle when I get fever.’

‘Your teeth  _ what _ ?’

‘Tingle. Don’t look at me like that… It’s normal?’

Louis blinks slowly.

Then he bursts out laughing, and laughs until his eyes water, and when he looks at Harry again he’s laughing too or maybe just smiling really wide. Then they stare at each other’s faces for a long moment. And it’s perfect.

Louis dips his head, before he can change his mind.

Just before they kiss, he can feel Harry’s breath on his lips and he knows. He will not change his mind.

Louis touches Harry’s cheek, pressing his fingers to hot, hot skin, and he’s almost sure they’re both going to be ill tomorrow. But it doesn’t worry him at all. The only thing he’s really thinking about is that Harry isn’t just letting him kiss, like last time. He kisses back, and Louis isn’t exactly surprised but it’s still a little hard for him to breathe when Harry holds his head steady to deepen the kiss, as if he’s just as exhausted by all the waiting and longing as Louis.

He really hopes that’s what it is.

He also thinks he’d trade all the dumb conversations from before for this, because  _ this _ is so much easier. And so incredibly good. Harry tastes salty and also familiar, a taste Louis was almost sure he’d forgotten, but now he recognises the way it made him feel on that stormy night weeks ago, like the only thing he wants right now is to just-

‘Wait,’ Harry’s mouth suddenly isn’t there, and he’s  _ talking _ . Louis shushes him quickly, without thinking. Then he kisses again to shut him up because that’s what worked before, once.

It doesn’t work. Harry breaks the kiss and presses their cheeks together, giggling straight into Louis' ear. ‘Wait-wait-wait. Niall…’

‘ _ What? _ ’

‘Did you tell Niall? That I’m staying here?’

‘Yeah, I texted him... Why?’

‘Just thought he’d be worried.’

Louis smiles, unseen, but tries to at least sound annoyed. ‘You’re thinking about Niall?’

He doesn’t get an answer; there’s just more laughter and Harry’s breath tickles his ear.

Louis doesn’t hate it. And he doesn’t mind Harry’s stupid questions. Or anything else, really.

His hands are under Harry’s hoodie, the way he thought about a lot, recently. They’re tangled in soft fabric without touching the skin yet, but he can already tell how warm it will be to the touch. It’s almost burning already.

With fever.

Louis considers this fact for a moment, or rather it flashes once in the glorious colourful mess that is his brain right now. He isn’t doing anything wrong, surely, but who knows.

‘Does it count as taking advantage if you’re sick?’

Harry doesn’t answer. Although maybe there’s a shrug that Louis misses when they collapse in slow motion onto a sofa that’s even less suitable for love making or whatever than the one in Harry’s house. He thinks  _ No, not again _ but it doesn’t sound very convincing even in his head. If he’s thinking at all, then it’s Yes. Again. Right now.

____ ____ ____

They make it to the bed in the end, and Harry’s grateful though he doesn’t say anything about it.

His body hurts a little from the cold. It began in his bones and now his skin’s getting more and more sensitive with each minute. He needs something warm and extra soft.

Louis is warm and extra soft. His hands are impatient, and everywhere, but they’re also soothing, when they run up and down Harry’s sides, stroking the ticklish skin on his ribs in a way that makes Harry shudder uncontrollably. One moment they’re tangled in Harry’s hair, pulling a little too hard on their way back down, and right after he can feel the tips of Louis' fingers brush across his chest, more confident than before. Than last time. Harry’s breath speeds up, tickling the inside of his throat, and though he’s trying really hard not to cough…

‘Hey. You’re okay?’

‘Yeah…’ Harry replies, his voice strangely high-pitched. He clears his throat, and coughs, and then he can’t stop coughing.

He can almost hear the guilt in Louis' voice when he whispers ‘No no no,’ like he’s pleading with him to stay alive. It would make Harry giggle under different circumstances, but he’s a little out of breath.

He reaches up and pats Louis' head lightly. ‘Babe, it’s not your fault.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have… You’re sick.’

Harry smiles and wants to say ‘I was sick last time, too’ but he’d rather not risk another coughing fit, or a conversation.

So he just wraps his arms tighter around Louis, until he relaxes and stops with all the apologies. It’s funny. Even though Harry’s dizzy from the fever, he’s feeling so much better. His thoughts flow languidly in and out of his head, warm and peaceful. He might be falling asleep.

He strokes Louis' thigh absently, running his hand back and forth over smooth skin, which is pleasantly cooler than his own. Then he can feel Louis shift slightly in his arms. And again. Harry tilts his head a bit so they can look at each other.

They left the light on, earlier. But it’s just a small night lamp. In the semi-darkness of the bedroom it looks like Louis' eyes are perfectly black, and wet, with identical tiny specks of light floating over the surface. They’re tired but focused, and there is something like a question inside them. Then they close. Harry looks on, slightly breathless and very awake.

If Louis asked him why he’s even here, he’d say  _ this _ . He came for this.

Without tearing his eyes from Louis' face, he lets his hand move again, more deliberately than before, watching the tiny changes in Louis' expression: eyebrows twitching just the tiniest bit, lips curling up. Then he props himself up on his elbow and bends to kiss at the corners of Louis' smile, and his cheek, and then he trails kisses down to his neck until he’s pushing his nose against the patch of skin that’s pulsating with Louis' heartbeat. It beats softly against Harry’s lips, matching the rhythm inside his own chest; rushed but not frantic. Expectant.

Louis brings a hand to the back of Harry’s neck, and he runs it through his hair for the millionth time tonight, while his other hand tugs vaguely at Harry’s shoulder. He takes the hint and lies on top of him, finding himself wrapped in seemingly endless limbs. They both sigh at the contact. Harry’s eyes close momentarily, and Louis softens, melts into him.

It’s not the closest Harry has ever been to anyone, but it feels like this. As if there was no such thing as barriers between people. Just clothes, and a bit of space. Easily removed. It’s funny to think that a few days earlier there was a sea between them.

Harry smiles as Louis' breath sinks into his hair, burning a little. He feels hot all over, and Louis must be really hot too; their bodies are both covered in a sheen of sweat now. Harry wonders if he’s too weak to do anything. Louis holds him firmly but gently, less impatient now. Like he’s ready to end this any moment if it’s too much.

But Harry doesn’t want it to end, not yet.

He knows Louis wants him too; but the sound he makes when Harry sends his hand higher up Louis' thigh has so much longing in it that Harry’s heart stops for what feels like an entire second.

He looks up, trying to meet his eyes just to make sure this really isn’t too much for either of them. But Louis twisted his head away, biting on the back of his own hand, and all Harry can see from here is Louis' neck, and the soft underside of his chin.

It’s a little different now. Harry can only smell the metallic scent of fever that fills his nostrils, but he kisses at the flushed skin like he means it, and he really does. Every kiss, every move of his fingers. Louis' hand is clasped around Harry’s shoulder stronger than before, but it still doesn’t hurt. He must be trying not to move too violently; Harry can feel his muscles tense beneath his own.

He just keeps touching, and listening to the sound of Louis' ragged breathing and stifled moans, but then suddenly Louis squeezes his arm a bit harder, and Harry stops. ‘What…?’

‘You don’t have to, you know,’ Louis says quickly, huffing out a short, breathless laugh. His hand is now shielding his eyes, as if the tiny light was too bright.  ‘I should just let you sleep.’

Harry can think of an elaborate answer to that, with many big words, but he just mumbles a quiet, stubborn ‘No.’ Because it’s better than last time, than any other time, and he knows exactly how much Louis wants it. Possibly a little more than Harry can handle right now. But also…

He suddenly snaps from his daze, blinking rapidly.

‘Louis?’

‘Mm.’

‘Look at me?’

Louis doesn’t move for another second, but then he rolls his head on the pillow, finding Harry’s eyes. ‘Yeah, what’s wrong?’

‘Oh god, no, I thought you were crying.’

Louis mouths a ‘what,’ frowning, before he lifts himself up a little so their faces are really close. ‘I’m not crying, silly. Are  _ you _ okay?’

Harry nods in the hot, narrow space between their faces. He’s okay. Just a little dizzy. Louis says something about dirty talk and chuckles quietly, pressing his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth. They stay like that for a moment.

Then Louis kisses him skin some more; slow open-mouthed kisses, which make Harry’s heart thud unevenly in his chest. Just like when he’s scared. Like when he loves.

So with the last of his strength, he pushes forward.

____ ____ ____

The sky is turning pink and orange, with a hint of red. A dozen tiny dawns are reflected in the glass walls of the buildings behind his window, looking completely unreal. Louis thinks he should turn off his lamp. But he can’t reach the switch, so it’ll have to shine until Harry wakes up. Or lets go of Louis' body.

He’s going to let Harry sleep for as long as he needs (probably a  _ lot _ ). And then he’s going to fall asleep as well. Just not yet.

Shit, he doesn’t have any aspirin.

Louis closes his eyes with a heavy sigh.

It comes out a bit too loud and Harry stirs in his sleep, mumbling an incomprehensible word into Louis' skin. It sounds good, kind of like a promise.

**_____________**


	8. Mercy (epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last bit of my story. I dedicate it to Kayla, whose comments inspired this rather silly ending.
> 
> AU • SFW • 1500 words
> 
> “You’re trying too hard,   
>  surrender.  
>  Give yourself in.
> 
> It’s not meant to be a strife;  
>  it’s not meant to be   
>  a struggle uphill.”
> 
> (Björk, Undo)

‘Why don’t we do this more often?’

‘What? Look at things in the dark?’

‘Yeah. And drink,’ Harry sighs, frowning at the stars. ‘We never get drunk any more.’

‘Mm, I don’t know… I think our bodies hate us afterwards. Remember last time, when you were  _ dying _ ?’

Harry nods solemnly. He can’t remember.

His neck hurts a bit from staring up at the sky.

He’s feeling so alive, though. And tingly. Definitely alive.

He stifles a hiccup. ‘I don’t feel like I’m going to die.’

‘Oh. That’s optimistic.’

‘No, but seriously, what if we could live forever? Just… keep on living, on and on. Maybe we could get away with it.’

‘We won’t,’ Louis mutters, setting down his empty bottle. It hits the pavement with a loud clink, alarming the crickets hidden in the shadows around them. They go quiet for a second, every single one. ‘Niall’s gonna kill us.’

Harry agrees.

He tears his eyes from the sky and looks at Louis, who has moonlight all over his face. It kind of suits him. Harry smiles, reaching up to touch a moonlit cheek. Louis' skin feels the same as when it’s lit by the sun, but Harry could swear this light is tangible and it’s pouring down on them like water, coating his fingers when he wipes it off his face.

‘So… there’s nothing we can do? To live forever.’

‘I don’t know,’ Louis replies absently, playing with Harry’s fingers. ‘There are ways, maybe. We could fuck a vampire.’

Harry thinks about it for a moment, before choking on his beer. ‘But how would that… what do you mean, fuck a vampire? Like, the same one?’ he giggles breathlessly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

‘If you can find two, go ahead. I’m being realistic.’

‘Uh… I  _ guess _ I’d be more comfortable if we shared the same one.’

‘See.’

Louis looks like he’s trying to stay serious a little longer. But the second their eyes meet, he snorts, and keeps laughing until Harry has to shush him because they’re sitting right in front of somebody’s house, practically on their lawn. He calms down after a moment, resting a heavy head on Harry’s shoulder.

It’s almost like they’re completely alone. Just two of them, plus the crickets, and the bright full moon driving them crazy. Somewhere behind the last house on the street begins the Irish Sea; Harry thinks he can hear it every now and then. But mostly, he’s thinking about the warm human pressed against his side.

He tilts his head and kisses Louis slowly. They’re still laughing quietly against each other’s lips, and maybe it really is just the two of them, except…

‘What about Niall? He’ll be so mad if we do this without him.’

‘He’s already mad.’

____ ____ ____

Niall’s so mad.

It’s been nearly two hours since they left and he’s getting depressingly sober.

He wonders what he should do for the rest of the night. Continue to wait, despite boredom? Go looking for them in the fields? With a lantern, maybe. Like he’s in fucking Wuthering Heights. 

Niall downs the rest of his cider and it’s officially the last drop of alcohol left in the house. He could just as well go to sleep and be mad at them in the morning. He could, but… Harry’s house is old and fucking  _ creepy _ , and it continues to produce the kind of noises Niall would rather not be hearing when he’s all alone at night.

Waiting it is.

After about ten minutes of furious waiting Niall dozes off. Some more time passes. An hour or a minute, hard to say.

He wakes up to the sound of muffled laughter and things colliding with other things.

‘Guys?!’

The noises stop abruptly. Someone clears their throat.

‘Niall. Hi.’

‘Where the hell have you been? Where’s my beer?’

Louis and Harry stumble into the room, accompanied by what sounds like the clinking of bottles.  _ Empty _ bottles. Niall eyes them up and down. ‘You did not!’

‘I’m  _ so _ sorry-’

‘And you drank all the Guinness? Fuck you, guys!’

‘But Niall, did you see the moon? It’s full… ‘s called the Harvest Moon, it’s so huge and makes everything grow. Like, wheat. And things. That’s so, like,  _ powerful _ …’

‘Shut up, you’re making things worse,’ Louis murmurs under his breath, shoving Harry aside. 'Seriously, Niall, we’re sorry. But it’s really beautiful outside and- There’s only one beer left. Here.’

'That’s just… great.’ Niall frowns, but accepts the bottle. He then looks over at Harry, pursing his lips not to smile. Their eyes meet and Harry instantly lets out a whimper, throwing himself in Niall’s arms.

'Don’t be mad at us! I’ll tell you a secret,’ he slurs somewhere below Niall’s chin, 'We know how to live forever. Seriously. It involves some really kinky sex, but that was Louis' idea.’

'Oh, then, I guess I’d rather die. Thanks, though.’

Harry chuckles and pulls himself up a bit. He seems to have a hard time keeping his eyes open.

‘Aww, dude… remember Narry?’ he grins happily two inches away from Niall’s face. ‘Remember that? We’re the cute ones right. Squared. It’s like a heart mul… ti-plied by a heart, man, like it’s so much love. We could heal the world with this love. There’d be no sadness or, like… what’s the other one…’

‘Louis, take him off me?’

‘It’s okay. He’s asleep, almost.’ Louis is still standing by the door with hands in his pockets, smiling at them really wide. Niall has never seen him smile like this, and it’s doing weird things to his heart.

‘Um. You sure you don’t want some of this love, though?’ he asks with mock disgust.

‘No, I’m good.’

‘Yeah? Cause… that’s a  _ lot _ of love, and-’

‘Louis,’ Harry suddenly turns his head, letting go of Niall, who holds him a little longer just in case Harry can’t stand upright on his own. ‘I love you, too.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘No, but… for real. I do, I’m  _ so _ in l-’

‘Okay, that’s enough. Ni, are you staying here, or?’

Niall shakes his head and sits on the couch, raising the last beer bottle meaningfully.

'You wanna drink this now? It’s really late.’

'Yes I do want to drink my beer, Louis. Thank you very much.’

'All right. So… goodnight?’

Niall winks at him, and Louis walks away, dragging Harry by the hand.

They’re about to leave the room when Harry turns around one more time. ‘You know, Niall… This couch is so important, you’ve no idea. When Louis was here in April, we  _ mmmpf _ ,’ he says and disappears behind the door frame with Louis' hand clasped over his mouth.

'… and it was awesome. I mean, beautiful. Night, Ni!’

Niall stays alone.

He eyes the grey couch suspiciously and then goes for an armchair instead, where he settles with a grunt.

He’s not angry any more. Just surrounded by happy idiots.

This might be what Niall wished for all along, so he’s not going to complain now.

____ ____ ____

Louis is trying to stop being awake but this weird white light is getting under his eyelids. The moon is shining right behind the bedroom window, as if it had followed them home.

And Harry’s being talkative. Of course.

‘What would you like us to do now?’

‘Ugh, sleep.’

‘In the future, Louis. What would you like?’

‘Sleep!’

‘We could live someplace nice… like the Middle East, or Africa. Or just Europe, you know, we’ve only seen like a fraction.  _ God _ , there’s so many countries. And there are people in them, and things that happen, and unfamiliar food…’

Louis sighs tiredly into the pillow.

‘I don’t wanna go to  _ Africa _ . I want a home, where we can sleep at night. Home can be anywhere. This could be home.’

Harry stirs in his arms. ‘Um… we can’t live here, babe. My lease ends next month and-’

‘I  _ know _ , Harry. Shut up already,’ Louis shifts a bit and kisses blindly at Harry’s face, ending up with his lips pressed against the side of Harry’s nose. He stays there, smiling a little.

‘Louis. I can’t breathe.’

‘Good. Now sleep.’

____ ____ ____

Sleep comes and goes in waves. Harry has drunk too much, obviously, but he also wonders if it’s affected by the moon. Like the ocean tides. It’s never quite there, but keeps returning: taking him away, bringing him back.

Harry likes sleeping, these days. He likes waking up, too. Louis usually sleeps longer, but then he smiles and looks at Harry with dark, content eyes, which speak of things Louis doesn’t like to put into words. Doesn’t have to.

But what Harry likes best are the moments when they’re both about to fall asleep, and that sixth sense he never really believed in takes over everything else.

It’s a strange kind of closeness. Harry doesn’t understand it, but he trusts it. He wraps it around their bodies like a blanket (though god knows there are too many blankets in this house already).

It’s soft. It keeps them warm through the night.

And then it lasts.

**_____________**


End file.
